A good friend of mine shared something in an AA meeting this morning that stuck with me, feeding my thoughts for the day. He said, “A leopard can’t change its spots, but God can.” That simple phrase sent my mind tumbling back through the years, to all the times I so desperately wanted my life to be different. I longed to be free from anxiety, from worry, from the relentless grip of self-destruction. I wanted peace, happiness, and something more than just existing. Yet, no matter how much I wished for change, nothing ever shifted. My best efforts—which, in truth, were never much—always led me back to the same painful place.
Looking back now, I can see the countless times my God had laid opportunities before me, open doors where I could have stepped into a different life. The first of these came not long after my drinking career had begun to take hold, slowly but surely sinking its claws into me. I remember standing there, watching as a friend of mine—someone I drank and used with—ran across the road, only to fall right in front of a double-decker bus. He died soon after, lying broken on the tarmac. In the shock of that moment, I sought refuge in my mum’s church, in her God. But I didn’t stay. The comfort didn’t last because I never truly let it in. Before long, I turned back to the only coping mechanism I understood: numbing my pain with drink and drugs.
There were many other moments—warnings, wake-up calls, desperate cries from the universe trying to shake me awake. Each time I got myself into trouble, upsetting the wrong people, dangerous people, I would run back to the sanctuary of my mum’s God. But He was never mine. I used Him like a temporary shelter in a storm, but I never stayed long enough to build a foundation.
The biggest moment of reckoning came when the world I had carefully constructed—the illusion of control I clung to—crumbled entirely. Everything I had tried to build to save me instead became my ruin. My marriage collapsed, my children were no longer in my daily life, the house I had once called home was no longer mine. I lost my dignity, finding myself back in my childhood bedroom at my dad’s house, a grown man defeated. That was the moment I made my first real effort to change my spots. I gave up drugs entirely, cut them out without hesitation. But that was easy, because they weren’t the real problem. The drink was. And that, I couldn’t let go of.
I remember sitting in my mum’s church one Sunday morning, the cold air pressing against my skin, yet inside I was burning up, sweating profusely. I told myself it was the side effects of the anxiety medication the doctor had given me. Not once did I consider that the real cause might be the three bottles of red wine I’d downed the night before. Even then, as my life spiralled into complete unmanageability, I still wasn’t ready to surrender. I knew the lyrics, but I had never learnt the tune.
I have never been great at learning from my mistakes—at least, not in the past. So even after rebuilding my life yet again, the wrecking crew—me, always me—almost tore it all down once more. But this time was different. This time, I knew. I was powerless over alcohol. Each morning, the first drink to stop the shakes would inevitably lead to another, and another, until I woke up the next day trapped in the same relentless cycle. The earthquake of each drinking day left cracks and destruction in its wake, and I knew that if I continued, there wouldn’t be anything left to rebuild.
But then, something changed. I walked through the doors of Alcoholics Anonymous, and in that moment, my surrender began. And once I had surrendered, it was as if the black bag I had been living under was finally removed. I could see clearly what had been there all along. My higher power. My God. They had never abandoned me. Thay had been screaming, whispering, reaching out in every possible way to show me that my spots could, in fact, be changed. I just had to stop trying to do it alone.
Since letting go and allowing my God to guide me, I now live a life beyond anything I ever dared to dream. I am running free across the wide-open savannah of sobriety, the wind of grace at my back. As long as I keep running in the right direction, with the sun on my shoulders and faith in my heart, those old spots—the ones that grow darker in the shadows—will never take hold again. I choose to stay in the light. I choose to keep running. And today, in this golden moment, I am free.
God Can
The leopard's spots, a truth.
A fixed pattern, the impossible self-made cage.
Yet, a whisper, "God can."
Years a tumble, a desperate want,
Anxiety's grip, self-destruction's dance.
Peace longed for, a silent, empty space.
Doors opened, unseen, unfelt.
A friend's fall, a bus's cruel stop.
A mother's church, a fleeting warmth.
The drink's shadow, a familiar comfort.
Warnings ignored, cries unheard.
Sanctuary sought, a temporary shield.
The crafted world, a fragile lie,
Shattered marriage, lost children, empty rooms.
A grown man's defeat, a childhood bed.
Drugs cast aside, a simple act.
The deeper thirst, the wine's dark pull.
Lyrics known, the tune unheard.
Mistakes repeated, a stubborn path.
Rebuilding, then the wrecking hand.
The cycle's grip, the earthquake's rage.
Powerlessness known, a surrender's start.
The black bag lifted, clarity's dawn.
A higher power, always near.
Screams, whispers, reaching hands.
Spots transformed, not by self, but grace.
Letting go, a guided path.
The savannah of sobriety, winds of change.
Sun on shoulders, faith's steady beat.
Dark spots fade, in the light's embrace.
Running free, a golden moment.
Surrender's gift, a life beyond dreams.
The eternal now, a quiet, flowing peace.
